Nothing happens while you live. The scenery changes, people come in and go out, that's all. There are no beginnings. Days are tacked on to days without rhyme or reason, an interminable, monotonous addition.

it was odd, he thought, that a man could hate himself as though he were someone else.

Man is abandoned on earth in the midst of his infinite responsibilities, without help, with no aim but what he sets himself.

You see, I'm fond of teasing, it's a second nature with me—and I'm used to teasing myself. Plaguing myself, if you prefer; I don't tease nicely.

Being is. Being is in-itself. Being is what it is.

There are two ways of destroying a people. Either condemn them en bloc or force them to repudiate the leaders they adopted. The second is the worse.

I receive letters from workers, from secretaries. . . . They are the most interesting ones.